


Four times they kiss by mistake (and the one time they mean it)

by ticketybye



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, Fluff, Just some silly ol' softness, Kissing, Light-Hearted, M/M, Or should i say first kiss(es)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticketybye/pseuds/ticketybye
Summary: “One does not kiss by accident.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 220





	Four times they kiss by mistake (and the one time they mean it)

It happens in Rome in 1952 the ﬁrst time. The only reason it comes as a surprise for Crowley, if he’s honest, is that they’ve known each other for so long he expected it to happen sooner.

They spot each other among the crowd of market-goers in Campo de’ Fiori. Aziraphale is a brush stroke of white emerging from dark green vegetables and sun-dried skin. The second their eyes meet, he oﬀers Crowley a bright, toothy smile that Crowley can’t but return. They haven’t seen or talked to each other in more than a decade, save for a few ugly postcards once in a while. Aziraphale has been in Rome, helping rebuild the city post-war, making a lot of exciting stuﬀ happen in the cinematic and art world. He did always have a soft spot for this place. Crowley’s been off the radar, thankful to take a break from the ugliness, the dirt and the gunpowder. Downstair’s allowed him, seeing as he’s allegedly done such a good job.

They walk toward each other, Crowley taking long steps, Aziraphale scampering comically. They elbow people along the way, Crowley ignoring their protests, Aziraphale breathing out a litany of _scusi_. Crowley’s brain is running a marathon, as always when they haven’t seen each other in a while and the question of greetings comes into the picture. They’re supposed to blend in. In this place, at this particular time, a hug would look a bit weird. Not entirely big on hugs in Italy, if it’s not a special occasion. A handshake would be ﬁne, though Crowley would ﬁnd it a bit underwhelming. The two kisses on the cheeks, though - brilliant Italians, inventing a way to make kissing into an everyday thing, that will do quite nicely. Perfectly normal and an acceptable excuse for touching some of Aziraphale with his lips.

And here they are - a moment of hesitation, two quivering smiles. Aziraphale nods at him. “Antonio.”

Crowley nods back. “Ezra.”

They both lean in for the kiss, except - Crowley really hasn’t thought this through, but to be fair, he’s out of practice - one goes right and the other goes left. They meet in the middle and crash nose-ﬁrst, their lips following suit. It’s not exactly pleasant - there are chins and teeth clashing and Crowley realizes just how pointy Aziraphale’s nose is as it painfully digs into his cheekbone. But it is glorious, absurdly so, and he gets almost a couple of seconds of Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his just perfectly. Fruity - as the angel draws back, looking ﬂushed and embarrassed, Crowley can taste grapes on the tip of his tongue.

Way to go unnoticed - most people ignore them, but a few kids snicker and yell slurs as they pass them by on their bikes. They will all take minor falls when they’re past the square.

“God, sorry,” Crowley drawls, seeing Aziraphale look around with a panicked look in his eyes. “Guess human greetings are not my forte.”

“Oh, it’s ﬁne, it’s ﬁne,” Aziraphale tries to smile again, pats him awkwardly on the arm. “It’s ﬁne.”

“Yeah, you said that.”

Aziraphale tighens the grip on his arm, takes him by the elbow. “Come. I was on my way to the cheese stand.”   
  
***  
  
If the ﬁrst time it’s to say hello, the second - merely two weeks later - is to say goodbye.

It has been a marvelous two weeks - dinners at the ﬁnest little osterias, sunsets enjoyed on quaint terraces at Aziraphale’s intellectual Roman friends’. Now they are at Termini station, a place Crowley has grown to love and hate in equal measure, sitting on bar stools and pretending not to look at each other. 

They don’t know when they’ll see each other again, and are trying to make do with the certainty that they will. Aziraphale sips his orange juice absent-mindedly, watching a mother spoon-feed her fussy toddler. 

“So”, he begins, “where to, next?”

Crowley shrugs, his espresso long drunk. “France again, possibly. Prime time to spread some political foment, or so they tell me.”

He expects Aziraphale to comment or reprimand him, but the angel nods distractedly. Crowley knows - he has studied Aziraphale’s microexpressions like a devoted monk would study the scriptures - that Aziraphale is refraining from saying something. He feels like he should ask, push him, but cannot ﬁnd it in him to do so. “And you?” He asks, instead.

“I’ll stay a while longer.” Aziraphale looks him in the eye. “Upstairs is very concerned with the heart of the Catholic church and its corruption.”

“Hmm. I wish my people were as concerned.”

“Hmm?”

“So I could stay too.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale falls silent, keeps his eyes on the ﬂoor. “That would be... nice,” he says after a while, then opens his mouth as if to add something, only to close it again.

“It bothers me,” Crowley spits out, before he can think.

“What does?”

It’s too late now. “That I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

Aziraphale is about to say something, but a monotone, loud voice interrupts him, announcing Crowley’s train is about to depart.

“Well.” Crowley picks up his suitcase, glad to have been given a reprieve, and they make their way toward the tracks. 

When the time comes to say goodbye, Aziraphale puts a hand on his shoulder, and Crowley takes him by the waist, in a way he believes is just between socially acceptable and suspiciously affectionate.

“It’s been a pleasure, dear.”

“Till next time, angel.”

They lean in again. Crowley learns from his mistakes, and this time he goes right. Aziraphale does, too, and goes left. They meet in the middle, and it’s just as terribly awkward as the ﬁrst time. If Crowley lingers a moment longer, pulling Aziraphale closer, it’s just the shock. If Aziraphale parts his lips only just, it’s most likely for the same reason. When they part, they rest their foreheads together. Aziraphale giggles. “We can’t seem to get this right.”  
  
“Yeah.”

Crowley turns his back and jumps on the train. He leans out of the window and waves at Aziraphale, who is staring with slightly wet eyes - but it could be a trick of the light - and ﬁdgety hands. 

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“It bothers me too.”

The train starts to leave before Crowley can say anything back. Aziraphale gets smaller and smaller, a ﬁgure in a painting Crowley wishes he could hang to his wall.  
  
***  
  
The third time they’re drunk. Crowley - he swears! - would go as far as saying that he’s absolutely car parked. They’re sitting on Aziraphale’s couch, and it’s snowing outside, and they’re playing truth or dare. Aziraphale has recently seen a group of young people play it in the park and is absolutely delighted by his new discovery. Crowley has consistently been choosing “truth”, because he knows himself, and knows Aziraphale, and knows perfectly well where dares and alcohol might lead. Aziraphale looks just about fed up with it.

“You’re no fun,” he drawls. “Choose dare for once!”

To be fair, Aziraphale has been putting himself out there all night, accepting ridiculous dares such as yelling “I’m an angel of the Lord” outside the window - which has earned him a few unoriginal comments from equally drunk passersby. It’s only fair Crowley says yes this once.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, “but nothing involving strangers.”

Aziraphale beams. “I dare you,” he begins, “to do something nice for me.”

“Nice...” Crowley mocks, then shakes his head and takes a trembling sip from his glass of port. “I don’t do nice.”

“Oh come on! You said no strangers, and I’m no stranger.”

Crowley looks at him, and looking is a mistake, really; he is now painfully aware of the slight ﬂush on Aziraphale’s soft cheeks, his eyes glistening with wine and glee, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt showing just a few inches of smooth, pale skin. He feels an all-too-familiar kind of sadness awake and stir in protest deep in his chest. 

“Alright”, he says, steadying himself, “alright alright alright.”

He places the glass on the coﬀee table and gently cups Aziraphale’s cheek with his hand. He wants to give him a kiss on the cheek, just that, really, and be done with it. But Aziraphale is taken aback by the gesture, and turns fully toward him just as his lips are about to land. 

They’re drunk. They’re really, really drunk, and alcohol is known for slowing down one's reflexes. That’s the only reason this accidental kiss lasts a bit longer than it should. Aziraphale seems to take charge, even, gently sucking on Crowley's upper lip, ﬁrst, and then on his lower, and putting an arm around his waist. By the time Crowley sobers up enough to realize what’s going on, he is half-sprawled on Aziraphale’s lap. He jumps up and stands, wide-eyed and panting.

“Oh Go- Sat- I didn’t mean...”

But Aziraphale looks quite chuﬀed and perfectly collected as he hides a smile in his glass. “That was quite nice indeed.”  
  
***  
  
Crowley doesn’t know whose idea it was to live together. He’s not even entirely sure they have discussed it, honestly. He just knows that he hasn’t left the bookshop in ten days now, except for some freelance tempting here and there.

This morning, he is sipping his coﬀee and looking at his phone. A royal family engagement in Italy - too far... A concert at the Barbican - nah, he actually likes the singer, no reason to cause trouble... there! A certain author’s book signing in the afternoon. Tottenham Court Road. Crowley smirks to himself. He has a feeling the Q&A will turn out to be quite fun.

He ﬁnishes the coﬀee, looking contentedly out the window of Aziraphale’s kitchenette. Aziraphale’s small apartment is quaint, like him. Every corner of it makes Crowley feel held and protected. Crowley has even come to appreciate the tartan bed lining - though Aziraphale must never, ever know. It’s soft and warm and smells of Aziraphale’s cologne even though the angel never sleeps.

Yes, Crowley has been sleeping in Aziraphale’s bed, but they have not been sharing it. Aziraphale, as far as Crowley knows, has been spending the nights reading and doing Someone-knows-what downstairs. They haven’t been sharing a bed; nope. Completely appropriate.

Crowley takes the time to wash his mug the human way, then hops down the stairs, eyes still glued to his phone to check the Twitter hashtag for the event. 

“Angel, I’m going out.”

He doesn’t look at Aziraphale, who is in turn not looking at him, eyes on some ancient manuscript. “Hmm. See you at dinner?”

“Yeah, sure.” Crowley is behind him now, is in the middle of typing a tweet himself. He leans in. “Bye then...?”

“Goodbye, my dear, be safe.”

And - still not looking at each other - they kiss each other goodbye on the mouth.

It’s quick and chaste and exchanged with the thoughtlessness of everyday things. Crowley only stops to register that it happened at all when he’s already a few steps out of the bookshop. “Shit”, he whispers to himself, and feels his face burn with embarrassment. Surely the angel hasn’t even noticed, though, busy as he was...?

He walks away, shaking his doubts off his shoulders with a shrug. Things to do, people to see.

Inside, unbeknownst to him, Aziraphale is covering his face with his hands and whispering softly to himself, “fuck, fuck, fuck...”  
  
***  
  
It’s a quiet afternoon at the bookshop. Crowley is spread out on the sofa, wrapped tightly in a blanket, comfortable and warm enough to just drift to sleep. This would be his plan precisely, if it wasn’t for the sudden, clear sound of Aziraphale’s voice claiming his full attention.

“This is ridiculous.”

Crowley jumps and turns around to look at him. The angel is standing at the doorway, spine straight and an almost frigthening look of determination on his face. Crowley regards him carefully, opens and closes his mouth and tries not to think about how alarmingly attractive this speciﬁc version of Aziraphale has always looked to him.

“W-what is?”

“The kissing.”

 _Oh no_. They stare at each other, Aziraphale furious, Crowley frozen in fear and - he hopes to Someone it doesn’t show - mild arousal.

“Kissing is ridiculous?” He asks, half to test the waters and half, honestly, to tease Aziraphale. And he gets the reaction he was aiming for, because - 

“Our kissing, you daft serpent!” Aziraphale is practically shouting, gesturing between the two of them. “I do hope you’ve noticed we have been kissing?”

Crowley is already starting to feel more relaxed. He has nothing to fear from Aziraphale - the angel only loses control when, one, he cares deeply, and two, is fussy because he’s not getting what he wants. So he lies back on the cushions and sighs dramatically. “Does it even count as kissing, angel? Pretty sure it's supposed to be conscious.”

Aziraphale is not saying anything back, but Crowley can practically hear his blood boiling. He ﬁghts hard to repress a smirk.

Then Aziraphale takes the three angry steps that separate him from the couch and stands in front of him. “One does not kiss by accident.”

Crowley giggles. “Apparently one does.”

“It’s not the done thing.”

“It is a thing that we’ve done.”

“So you’re okay with it.”

“Well, there’s no way to take it back, is there now?”

“You would take it back?”

“NO!” Crowley almost yells, eager as he is to stop this train of thought in its tracks. He sits up and stares at Aziraphale for a moment, then doubt creeps in and he has to ask, his voice little more than a whisper, “Would you?”

Aziraphale softens. He looks at various parts of Crowley’s face, seemingly incapable of ﬁxing his gaze on one. “No,” he says then, sounding small and defeated.

 _Fucking do something_ , Crowley’s brain implores, but he just stays put, dimly aware of how ridiculous he must look, hair tousled and the blanket still on his knees. Aziraphale is looking at him with something dangerously close to pity in his eyes - or is it aﬀection? Crowley has never quite been able to tell.  
  
But then the expression on Aziraphale's face changes again, his eyebrows lifting, his lips pursing. “Would you be opposed,” he begins, suddenly all prim and proper, clasping his hands behind his back, “to a consciously and mutually agreed upon bit of snogging?”

Crowley goes wide-eyed with disbelief, then feels a smile form on his lips, slow and utterly unconscious, this. “You... you...” he stutters, then stops, then tries again. “You!!!” He exclaims, incredulous. He laughs, then, open and unrestrained, at the mercy of something too big and light and beautiful to be kept inside. He tosses the blanket aside, stands up and reaches Aziraphale, still barely containing his giggles, and takes him by the waist like he’s done very few times before. “I can’t believe this,” he says, then kisses Aziraphale lightly on the lips, barely more than a peck. “Only you,” another kiss, “would make this,” another, “sound like,” another, “a business arrangement.”

“Oh, shush,” Aziraphale says, smirking, an evil, just _evil_ twinkle in his eyes, “You like it.”

 _The bastard_. Crowley kisses him for real, but gives him just enough time to start enjoying it before he pulls back to speak again, for what he intends to be the last time this evening. “I love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote a lil' something to get rid of my writer's block (yeah I know this is an OLD concept). Please accept this offer of softness. Tnx for reading <3
> 
> Fourth kiss inspired by this brilliant Tumblr post: https://roman-kun.tumblr.com/post/186300302757/its-bound-to-happen-and-you-know-it


End file.
